"Centaur´s Wood" by D. ´Emera´ Chien

There was a Man in the forest, she had heard, from a meadow finch bringing breakfast to his young ones. It had been a long time since a Man had been in the woods, and she wished to see.

She found the place easily enough, from the chatter of the finch- a small clearing surrounded by oaks, one forest giant large enough to shelter a traveler within the twists of its ancient, gnarled roots.

Curled there was the Man, slumbering uneasily, young and flaxen-haired. He was garbed simply, and a lute was cradled in his arms. A bard, then.

This bard, this Man, looked harmless enough, and besides, when the Centaur ran, the wind could not catch her. So she deliberately stepped forward onto a thin branch lying before her, sending a snap to pierce the thin veil of bird chatter over the trees.

The Man jerked awake, shrinking back against the tree, and the Centaur saw that he was blind, for though he had been roused, his sealed eyelids did not open; the fringe of eyelashes lay closed on the soft face. “Who’s there?” he cried, swinging his sightless head back and forth in a futile search for the intruder. “Who’s there?” And he started up to his feet, one hand tightly gripping the lute behind him, the other outstretched, groping.

The Centaur stepped forward, her normally silent footfalls thudding deliberately on the turf in careful rhythm.

The Man relaxed, recognizing the sound. “A horse. Only a horse. Horse, why are you here, alone, in the woods?” he said, softly. He stretched his hand out further, only to meet that of the Centaur. He recoiled, and said in fear, “Who are you, rider?”

“No rider, Man.” The Centaur spoke slowly, softly, lowering her hand as she did. “Centaur.”

The Man’s face tightened. “Centaur. You jest, rider. Can you not leave a blind man alone, to disturb his rest, and then taunt him with such lies as these? Think you that I, in my sightlessness, have not been derided with such mockeries as this before?”

“No jest, Man. No rider and no jest. I am Centaur. We still live, in woods like these, though no Man may believe it. As you are here, in this wood, so am I.”

The Man shook his head, disbelieving. “Come closer, that I may- see you, then.” The Centaur stepped closer, to meet the Man’s outstretched hand. She shuddered, once, under the unfamiliar sensation, then stood rock-still as the sensitive, string-calloused fingertips flew over her face, her shoulders, her flat, almost breastless chest, down to the line where woman and horse met. There the hand lingered, on the strange connection where smooth flesh met glossy hide. Finally, it slowly withdrew, and the Man let out a long breath. “Centaur, then, are you.”

“Centaur,” the Centaur agreed, smiling a little. “Now, Man, will you tell me why you are here?”

“I was traveling,” he replied, a little shock still on his face.

“That much is evident.”

“These woods lay in my path, but I lost it.”

“Lost what?”

“The path.”

“Oh.” A strange conversation indeed, the Centaur mused to herself, and a strange Man, at that.

“So I took shelter in this clearing overnight.”

“And then were awoken by me.”

“Yes. And I should very much like to leave these woods as soon as possible, meaning no offense to you, Mistress… Centaur.”

“None is taken, Man. I will lead you out, if that is your wish.”

He bowed gracefully, and smiled. It was a very sweet smile, judging from the little that the Centaur knew of such things as smiles and faces. “I am much obliged to you for your kindness, Mistress Centaur. If we may begin at once…?” He slung the lute over his shoulder by its strap, and cautiously moved forward to find her horse-shoulder with a hand, obviously meaning to follow by touch as she led him out of the forest.

The Centaur hesitated, then spoke. “If you like, you may ride upon my back. It would be easier that way, for the both of us.”

The Man’s face tensed again, momentarily, but when he realized there had been no condescension in her word or thought, he relaxed, and nodded. Before the Centaur realized it, he had swung up and over her withers, his long legs sliding down awkwardly to dangle on either side.

The Centaur shied, dancing sideways and stiff-legged over the grass, and nearly bucked him at once, but controlled herself at the last moment as tremors of instinctive alarm twitched through her hide. As fear fluttered away through her chest, she twisted around awkwardly to see that her passenger was still safely seated, if breathing a bit hard, with one arm gingerly wrapped around her human waist and the other still supporting the lute on its strap. A rather awkward silence fell, and the Centaur fleetingly noted that the strange, sealed eyes gave him the semblance of slumber still, before she hastily turned and ducked beneath the low bough of an oak, heading eastward out of the clearing, towards the pale-rising sun.

Gradually the tension dissipated, and the birds and foliage seemed to fill in the silence again with their rustling chatter. The Centaur made her way tentatively at first, unsure of her unfamiliar passenger, but gradually fell into her normal, leggy stride, as the morning light firmed and began to take on real color and warmth. The Man’s arm around her waist relaxed, and he dared to rest a little against her back. He sighed, calm enough now to enjoy the morning, in his own way.

The Centaur began to hum a little, a sound like that of turning earth, very warm and low. This was really not much different from her usual daybreak rambles, she reflected absently, laying a friendly hand on the smooth-skinned trunk of a familiar sycamore as she passed by. It only seemed natural when the Man-a bard, after all-began to weave in a thin, whispering whistle-melody over her slow hum, like that of breeze-whisked grass. And then the Man’s hand left the lute for the first time, leaving it to dangle free, as the hand crept, trembling, to touch the Centaur’s face, cool, calloused fingers uncertainly caressing the suddenly hot cheek, and the arm around her waist gently tightened, protective.

The earth-song faltered and stopped, as the Centaur’s eyes widened and her head jerked backwards, displacing the hand delicately laid there.

But the melody began again, only that moment’s silence betraying her awe at the beautiful thing that had just happened. There were words there now, softly lilted in her leaf-husk voice, and then they were matched in his bird’s-pipe one, as the hand found its place again, and was welcomed by hers settled comfortingly on top.

She smiled, as the trees continued to fall back behind her, and more showed their leafy faces ahead. And the Centaur and the Man made their little music into the rising dawn.